The 11th Hour- Metro For Sheriff

    "You have done absolutely nothing!"

   I wake up from a dream, or maybe a nightmare, to this being yelled at me through the JCM plastic cup intercom system by the overwhelmed assistant Sebastian Owl from the other side of the JCMsTown Compound. In the dream I was having, Elizabeth Third, who is the pixie E-Girl cashier from the grocery store that is in love with me, was repeating/crying, "Make up something. Make up something. Make...up...some...thing," but that is for a future post.

   "What are you babbling about?" I ask Owl.

   "Election Day is Tuesday and you have done nothing in regards to your campaign for sheriff of Wayne County," Owl is frantic.

   "Actually, I could be elected sheriff of Wayne, Oakland, Macomb counties, maybe more. I am untrackable. I just roam," I reply.

   "Are you going to do anything about it?"

   "I am going to need a multi-tier platform and I'm going to need some flyers. I'll get started in an hour," I warn, and then cut the string attached to the plastic cup so I won't be bothered anymore.

   The Metro for Sheriff campaign was initially conceived by Elizabeth First, the tambourine player, not to be confused with Elizabeth Third from the dream. That's the next post, the post-Halloween post. First had written my name in as her choice for sheriff during the primaries and it was very touching but then I realized that I really might be able to make a difference. So I decided to run for sheriff after all and now I have a day to make it happen.

   I call Kentucky Pete, who is my primary bootlegging Wizard and Wise Man, and have him come up with a flyer design that I plan on distributing at the post office and grocery store which are basically the only places I go to these days.

   "Meet me at the Walgreens," K Pete says, ominously.

   "Cool, I'll need about thirty. Does that sound right?" I ask.

   "I'm doing this as a favor, but it comes with a cost," he replies ominously.

   I don't know what he means so I click off and head over to Walgreens where K Pete is waiting. We head in and K Pete disappears while I head to the photo area to grab the flyers.

   "What's the name?" the ribbonhead working the counter asks.

   "Metro. Bryan," I reply.

   "Sorry, nothing under that name."

   "Kentucky Pete?" I reply, a question.

   "No, nothing," he replies as I start to panic that we might be at the wrong Walgreens. K Pete is banned from multiple locations. And on that note K Pete arrives at the counter with a basket full of snacks, beer, vitamins, and a knee brace.

   "I have a pick up," he tells the clerk, "The name is under Uncle Jasper."

   Uncle Jasper is an alias that Kentucky Pete, which actually is another alias, uses when he is in the Garden City area. He even has a custom mask for when he gets into the dark territory of the mind. He wore it when we scammed our way into Theater Bizarre and spent the entire night muttering "Uncle Jasper" when he wasn't fumbling for the Fireball.

   "Uncle Jasper. Yep, got it right here," the dweeb says and hands us the package of Metro For Sheriff Flyers.

   "Metro, go ahead and take the flyers. I'll meet you at the car. It's on me. Plus, I have all this stuff to buy and you need to work on your campaign promises. Plus, you have a bad knee. That's why we need this knee brace here," K Pete says and I have no idea where he is going with this, so I take the flyers and head to the car. Less than 40 seconds later K Pete rushes into the car, still with the basket.

   "Let's go! Get out of here now," he shouts.

   "What is the deal man?"

   "The deal is good. I told him that you walked out with the flyers without paying and when they were distracted I walked out with this basket. I boosted all of this stuff," he explains and this is when I notice that he had changed into the Uncle Jasper mask.

   "You don't even need half the shit you have in that basket," I yell, "Vitamins? You don't take vitamins. I don't take vitamins. What's with the fucking vitamins man?"

   "Yeahhhh, I thought about that, but the shelves were stocked. We'll just take them to the CVS a mile over. They know me there. We'll return them for store credit. Campaign funds, my friend. Or should I say, Future Sheriff."

   He had a point. Once we got to a Kroger in possibly one of the worst parts of town I open the flyer package and am floored that K Pete neglected to include my full name.

   "Dude, how are people going to know who to write in? Who is 'B. Metro'? What is that? Is it Barry? Bobby? It could be Bianca, a female! We can't have a female sheriff!"

   "Ooops, don't worry, it's in the bag. You got this," his solitary reply.

   After returning around $50 in stolen vitamins for store credit we use the credit to buy even more beer and Fireball and canvas the store to try to make use of all these "Metro For Sheriff" flyers I am losing interest in.

I drop K Pete off (He doesn't say goodbye) and head over to JCM HQ, the bikini bar to work on my campaign platform. And This......Is......It.....

Metro For Sheriff Campaign Platform

1. A Firing Squad. In order to establish at least some semblance of peace we are going to have to resurrect the Firing Squad. We will need six good shots. No worries, there will be a full background check. We don't need any psychotic Patriots with automatic rifles. We also don't need any green-haired poofs showing up to Firing Squad with squirt guns as some kind of ironic statement. The Firing Squad will need a cool name. The Too Much Fun Club is already taken (and probably inappropriate). Possibly, it could be the Honor Roll. Kentucky Pete suggested "The Majestic Six" which also works. Anyway, Firing Squad.

2. As Sheriff, there will be an immediate investigation into where the surplus funds from the Hamtramck Music Fest (and other local music fests) are actually going to. For far too long we have never had a concrete answer where the money is going and as Sheriff I pledge to make that change. Too many of the people involved are also involved in bankruptcy protection so I think the time is NOW for the details to emerge. As Sheriff, I will make things emerge.

3.a- All local non-prescribed drug sales are to be run and Regulated through the Sheriff's office in coordination with press secretary and Minister of Dope Elizabeth First. If there is any cheapjack Fentanyl detected: Immediate Firing Squad.

3.b- All Jack White drug mules must check in with the Sheriff's office/Minister of Dope.

4. We will enforce an aggressive effort to ensure all GoFundMe's/crowdsourcing projects have complete accountability and proof of where the money went.

5. An executive order to make "What Dat Mouf Do" a monthly event. The Minister of Dope along with Sheriff Metro will be on site to make sure we get a fair cut in the crack sales.

6. A pledge to clean up the real estate fraud in Detroit, specifically Hamtramck, and also look into that Greatest Wrestling Collection goofball Steven Morand who has been fleecing people for years to buy cheap figures.

7.a- Any permutation of "Dude or Muggs" can only play at Cadieux Cafe once a year.

7.b- Any double bill of The Hourlies and Vellows can only play once a year. This can be extended if the Sheriff or Minister of Dope can play tambourine.

8. An inquiry as to why the W.A.B. has been closed in a thriving locale in a post pandemic period. A secondary inquiry will be implemented if they reopen under the nefarious "new management" moniker and still emply next to zero people of color. This investigation will be headed by the Minister of Equality, -jr.

9. YouScan Regulation. Any foreigner playing dumb at a YouScan like they haven't been there before, trying to pass off copied coupons, holding up the line at closing time knowing that the clerk will let them get by for free must provide a recent pay stub, tax return, or proof of employment. If any of the above exceeds the Sheriff. Firing Squad.

10. No more kids helping at the bottle return. One thing the Sheriff hates is walking in to the bottle return with five cans of empty lowjack beer only to see some sweathog with a garbage bag of returns and letting their waterhead kid put them in like it was some type of great life lesson. Enough. Stop. You've all been there. As Sheriff, I promise, no more. Honor Roll.

11. Make an effort to look into racial profiling. What are the Pro's? What are the Con's?

So that's it in regards to my Metro for Sheriff campaign. I hope I provided enough knowledge so that you can make the right choice this Tuesday. 

From the Iceman Commeth,

Bryan Metro For Sheriff

-jr For Minister of Equality

E First For Minister of Dope

Sebastian Owl For Misister of Cleaning Up the Mess

The Great Pumpkin Hunt-JCM Crashes Theater Bizarre

    "I can't hear a single thing out of this damn ear."

   I am shouting at trustworthy, yet exhausted, assistant Sebastian Owl through the JCM'sTown Compound intercom which is basically two cups attached to a string. Actually there are multiple cups, multiple lines, in case I multitask. The entire Compound is littered with cups. Everywhere you walk you Will step on a goddamn cup.

   Back to the story, I have been dealing with a nasty case of temporal arteritis, which is an inflammation of the main artery on the right side of the head which could end up being a stroke or maybe just a miserable day. Whatever.

   "Do you want to go to urgent care?" Owl asks from the intercom/cups on the other side of the Compound, and I still can barely hear.

   "No. Hold on, Kentucky Pete is messaging on the Mojo Wire," I reply and use scissors to cut the string from the intercom so that I am not interrupted again. I click on the Mojo Wire.

   "Hey Metro, it's K Pete."

   "Yes, I know."

   "Theater Bizarre is this weekend and they're asking for volunteers."

   "Theater Bizarre makes my eyes roll," I reply, rolling my eyes.

   "C'mon man," he explains.

   "It is overpriced and filled with people with too much money, who think way too highly of themselves, and who I would never socialize on a personal basis to begin with," I explain.

   "But you get to get in for free, maybe make some money, and just have to work an elevator," he explains.

   "Okay, I'm sold. I'll pick you up around 6," I explain.

I arrive at 5:45 in costume.

   "What are you supposed to be?" K Pete asks.

   "I'm going as the Filth Magnet," I explain.

   "You look like an asshole."

   At this point I notice that Kentucky Pete is not even wearing a costume.

   "Wait, we're supposed to be working this thing and you have no costume!" I yell.

   "They know me. I have a guy on the inside. He gave me the tip on the volunteering gig. He also gave me the design for their new Token system."

   "What token system?" I am sweating in October.

   "Well, this year you need tokens to get into special rooms," he explains...

"Like sex stuff," I ask.

   "Well, special rooms. It's a new system and I have around 50 of these fuckers ready to roll. We just need to pick them up. I also have tickets bootlegged as well in case we get denied. I hope they're right about these volunteer dropouts... Let's roll."

   So we head to his usual Walgreens where he grabs fifty crude facsimile printouts of the tokens that we spend the next 30 minutes taping to cardboard. And then we get stopped by the cashier. Well, great...

   "Sir, your pants are soaked," the clerk says, eyeing K Pete, who leans into me and says, "I have my Firebird in my sock. It's leaking."

   "Jesus man, ditch the fucking flask and lets get out of here," I reply, and K Pete takes out the flask and leaves it on the counter while telling the clerk to "keep it" and we rush out of the store cackling like madmen, and then I realize we have one more stop to make.

   "We need to make another stop," I explain.

   "We're going to be late. What's the deal?" K Pete asks as he takes a pull from a flask of Firebird that I don't know where it came from.

   "The deal is good. We have to pick up Elizabeth Second at this hotel in Lincoln Park," I explain.

   "The tambourine player is coming?" he asks.

   "No, that is Elizabeth First. E First is the tambourine player. This is E Second. She is in town from Vegas and wants some action. She'll get the drugs."

   "But doesn't E First get the drugs?" K Pete is also sweating in October.

   "No! Well, wait, yes she does, but this is Elizabeth Second."

   "Where is Elizabeth First then?"

   

   "I don't know. Disappeared. Happens every other month."

   "So who is this Elizabeth Second?" K Pete is frantic.

   "She's in town from Vegas, don't ask, and can probably score some good shit," I explain.

   "Wait, so she is going to volunteer at the elevators too? We can't have three people running an elevator. Nobody will be able to ride it. This is such a savage scam," K Pete is still frantic.

   "Girls like E Second don't volunteer. We have nothing to worry about. Let's roll."

   We arrive at E Second's hotel but she has already checked out and is currently at Beaumont Hospital in Dearborn because she thought she got sick. We don't ask any questions and scoop her up and head to Masonic.

   "How come you're not wearing a costume?" E Second asks K Pete.

   "I'm going as the 'Kind Neighbor'," he replies, "and what are you going as tonight?"

   "I'm the benevolent shot girl."

   We eventually arrive at Theater Bizarre and somehow make our way to the entrance. K Pete's volunteers scam initially works, but the door guy was not happy.

   "You are the guys that are supposed to be working the elevator? You're late. People are complaining. I had 30 Rock Financial cosplayers bitching at me they can't get to the smoking area."

   "It's okay. We're with the Metro Times," I reply flashing my bootlegged press pass.

   "And I'm with Hour Detroit," K Pete says, same.

   "And Eros Vegas," E Second adds, no credentials, but who is going to ask?

   "Okay, fine, you guys take the elevator gig. Make sure to bring the girl. Here are you passes," the ribbonhead says and we take our passes. "Make sure to bring the girl," he repeats.

   "Of course. Whatever's right," I reply as we make our way to wherever we are supposed to be.

   "Okay, I'm heading to one of the theme rooms. Thanks for the free pass. Do you have any extra of those tokens?" Elizabeth Second asks, and K Pete hands her around twenty, but most of them crude and rushed. And then she's gone. We will never see her again so we start towards the elevators and then things shift again.

   "Can't do it," K Pete mumbles as he takes a swing from yet another Fireball pint, the last one having been confiscated at the entrance.

   "Jesus, where is this coming from?" I ask, frantic, "You ditched the last two at Walgreens and the door!"

   "Can't do it," K Pete repeats ignoring my questions, "I have a fear of elevators. Ever since I was arrested in one. Fairlane. Dearborn."

   I knew this story well. It was probably mid-90's/ Kentucky Pete was at the Fairlane Mall in Dearborn, drunk because why not, already with an aging prostate. He had to piss and decided to do so in the elevator to the second level. At that time the elevator was glass so everybody could see this monster pissing on the door. Needless to say the police were waiting for him and K Pete was arrested. In a cruel twist of fate, at the court hearing, the benches were obviously wood and K Pete accidentally farted during the hearing, interrupting the judge's spiel and the wood amplified the sound and he ate a contempt of court as a result.

   "Can't do it," K Pete says yet again, "Let's get something to eat. I have a bootleg of the menu."

   We eat and K Pete gets up and says that he needs to change into his costume for our gig at the elevators that we are very late for. As he shuffles off I realize that he has zero intention of paying for the tab so after five painful minutes I walk out on the tab and find K Pete in costume as Buckethead. The photo is from the Majestic a decade ago, but I guess he takes this gear everywhere.

   As I approach him I realize that he is urinating into either a bottle or a cup. I couldn't bother to look.

   "What are you doing?" I softly shout.

  "Can't find a single fucking bathroom here."

   "We are late for the elevator gig. Ditch the costume and that swill and let's go."

   "Can't do it. Elevators man," he replies.

   "Then just stand outside the fucker. I'll run the damn elevator," I shout.

   Kentucky Pete agrees and ditches the costume and hands the piss cup to somebody from Rocket Mortgage and ominously says, "Extra stout."

   We get to the elevator where Jeff Milo is working, stepping in, obviously frustrated.

   We excuse him and K Pete immediately leaves.

   "Gotta piss again. Plus need to change into another costume. We're not going to last 20 minutes here."

   He comes back looking like a complete fool. I recognized the costume from when I initially picked him up while he was wandering around the yard.

   "What are you supposed to be? I ask.

   "I'm Uncle Jasper. Call me Jasper."

   "What is Uncle Jasper?" I ask.

   "I made it up. I can't do this elevator thing," he explains and we spend the next five minutes selling off the rest off the bootlegged tokens at a discount (but that much ho ho ho) and after five minutes of people complaining that we are not actually running the elevator we just ditch the entire job and blend in using the fraud tickets and the bootleg press passes. K Pete insists on spending the rest of the night as Uncle Jasper and we grabbed some pics.

Now That is quality Screwjacks!

   After that waste of time, we decided to check out some of the theme rooms which require tokens which aren't a problem of course because we are still sitting on at least 25 of them.

   "Fistitorium. I like the sound of that," K Pete says, as I silently agree, "Maybe that girl we brought in here is in there."

   "It's possible," I reply, "But in reality we will never see her again."

   "Oh."

   So we give Fistitorium a shot and it was okay. The best part was the dumpy girl dressed as Kenny Omega that we ran into while they were complaining about the elevator.

   The Fisitorium room awoke something awful in me as I recalled going to a swingers hotel party in Farmington with one of my ex's and it was just awful. I went in having no intention of participating and was just there to observe and journalize. There was nobody attractive there. My ex saw me scowling and said "Stop scowling. Don't be rude," which I ignored and we went to the pool which was predictably filled with middle-age oatmealheads. And then I insisted we leave, which we did. The Fistitorium was not as bad as that. A few ringers, but whatever. I was getting tired and K Pete had produced yet another Fireball pint which means I'm driving him home. The night was turning dark.

   "Hey man, look at this," K Pete says, awakening me from my daydream. It was a screencap of some girl who lost a mask at this very event. He shows me the cap.

   "Oh Jesus man, that's not you is it?" I ask him, now in full on panic mode.

   "No way, I thought it was you," he replies giggling. 

   "There is a possibility that one of us have this mask," one of us says, who?, nobody knows.

   "No way, we have already burned this thing too much. There is somebody else here that is looking for trouble. Do you want to go back to try the elevator gimmick. They never paid us," K Pete asks.

   "No way. I'm tired. Plus they're on to us and I bet you have that fucking mask. You're just too drunk to realize it.."

   "I thought you did. You're the bandit. Missed opportunities I guess," he says, sliding into that awful introspective mood. But he was right. Neither of us had the mask. That would break the rules. That girl did not deserve to have the mask snatched. Anyway.

   We run into Woodman on our way out.

   "You guys get in for free? Freebees?" he asks.

   "Hey do we look like a record store kid?" K Pete replies.

   "It's what you don't know," I continue.

   "That matters most," K Pete finishes.

And then we left.

From the Iceman Commeth,

The Boy Next Door,

Dr. Bryan Metro

                &

Kentucky Pete

Happy Halloween

   "

Getting Sick In The Middle Of The Road

 Author's Note-

   As you should already know, this site is for entertainment/satire purposes. Sometimes it is peppered with real life pop culture, movie, music, crappy local festival reviews, and even then, those are often with unreliable narration. It stinks that I have to include this disclaimer, but the following is just one person's (mine) perspective and experience with finally catching Covid. It is in no way an endorsement of any methods or a mockery of anyone whose life was seriously or tragically affected by the Bug (Covid, not Marcie, but that can go both ways). Do whatever makes you the safest, happiest, and as "level" as you wish. This is just one person's (Mine) take. To make things even more complicated, the following still follows the "Half truth/Half fiction" model. You figure it out. And now, here is a story that might bore you...

Prologue

   It is last month and I am with Elizabeth First, the tambourine player, who is about to go parachuting, and today my role is that of the "Responsible Driver". I was originally supposed to participate (the selling point: "We're both borderline suicidal, so why not?"), but that wasn't going to happen.

   "I am not jumping out of a fully functioning airplane," I tell her as she fumbles through her purse, a "Metro For Sheriff" flyer falling to the floor.

   "C'mon now, I'm standing in the middle of my life with my pants behind me," she rationalizes. I don't correct her.

   "I'm going home. I'm tired as hell. I'm not the cat I used to be."

   "We're getting old. I got a kid. I'm 34."

   "Isn't it 33... baby" I correct.

   "How are the book sales going?" she asks, ignoring the correction.

   "Surprisingly well, considering that I have no local support or publicity machine behind me and am covering most of the costs myself, but I have sold enough to say that I am a published author and made a little money off it."

   "One second, I love this song," she interrupts while turning the radio up as Led Zeppelin's "Trampled Underfoot" starts playing, also a personal favorite.

   "I CAN'T STOP TALKIN' ABOUT LOVE," she yells before the singing even begins.

   "I find this song unique in that I have no idea what any of the lyrics are aside from the 'talkin about love part'," I offer.

   "Let's try."

    Okay.

   "Breeshing me down, Gulag a trip. I could lay you on the road, mama angels smear."

   "Talkin' about love! Talking about love! My turn."

   "Trouble-free transmission, thought you'd overexplode; mama let me pop your gash, mama letmetobethrow."

   "Talkin' about love! Talking about love." We conclude with a high five.

   "That was different," she continues as the song keeps playing, "What about the sheriff campaign?"

   That same month, a few friends suggested I run for sheriff of Wayne County so I had my bootlegging Wizard Kentucky Pete cook me up a flyer.

   "Well, I need to kick it into high gear. I have all these flyers made. I just need to start meeting the people, get the message out."

   "What is the message?"

   "There is no message. I think this gives me the advantage. If I don't take a stand for anything I think that would appeal to everyone," I reply as I take a pull from the light beer I have in my lap and merge off the freeway onto the back road to the skydiving joint.

   "Really? So no message is the message..."

   "Yeah, exactly. Well, one of my platforms is to find out exactly where the 20% of the Hamtramck Music Fest's 'community donations' are going to. I think, as sheriff, people should know."

   "We are killing it. Still," she says.

   "Naturally," I reply, a high five, as I spill the rest of my beer on her.

   "Oh shit, I'm sorry. I'm actually thinking about going into rehab if that helps," my form of an apology.

   "Don't worry about it. I have a change of clothes."

   "Hey, me too!" another high five.

   "Rehab can be fun," she continues as a chill washes over me, "the last time I was in rehab I kept trying to escape so they actually offered me a job there just so I would stay."

   "That's crazy," I laugh as I open another beer and hang a sharp left avoiding an overturned mailbox.

   "I still got out of it," she continues, "I couldn't stand the junkies that were there. What insurance do you have?"

   "I have ___________," I reply, regretting it.

   "Hey, me too! I'll look something up. Do you want me to book you into a hotel so you can dry out?"

   "I think that could be an absolute disaster. Don't threaten me with a good time."

   We are about 15 minutes from the drop zone and things are quiet. Then...

   "Hey! I have new bruises!" First says, showing me some new bruises.

   "Jesus Christ, was that me?" I am frantic.

   "No, Crazy. Just being rough and tumble."

   "It fucking looks like Jerry Garcia."

   "Oh shit! It does! Should I get it tattooed?"

   "No."

   "Okay."

   "I think things are starting to unravel," one of us says, you tell me.

   "How's money?" E First asks.

   "Horrible. The shoplifting gimmick has gotten out of control. Every day."

   "Wicked," she is wide eyed, "Tell me more. You are making my hands shake."

   "I am keeping a chart," I say, starting to cry.

   "Keeping a chart is... smart."

   "My new gimmick is that I dress like, and portray, a violent homosexual. That's what the change of clothes is for. Who is going to stop this raging loon looking to lift a steak and a six pack all while dressed like George Michael?"

   "Very smart. Work the current climate, although I assume you aren't wearing a 'Pro Life' shirt. If anyone even questions you they'd probably lose their job. Though if they do nab you the sheriff thing could be in trouble."

   "I know. I need to get the sheriff thing moving. I'm just worried about hitting the pavement, stomping the Terra, and possibly getting sick talking to all these losers," I say, opening another light beer.

   "It will be a thrill," she says, and I take 30 seconds to think which topic out of all of these would be a thrill.

   "You are sick," I reply.

   "No, you are," her reply.

   "Naturally," I reply.

   "Well, you're going to get sick," her reply.

   "Isn't that the plan?" I reply.

   "Everybody's sick in the end," her reply.

   I don't reply, so she continues.

   "You are supposed to give my eulogy."

   "Everybody's sick in the end. Is that the plan? Is this close to the end?"

   "I don't think that is true."

   "I just want to keep the game going!" I yell.

   "Then that's the plan. Yabba..."

   "Dabba..."

   "Doo..."

Blackjack and Sickness

   And then I got sick.

   It is now a Sunday, Foamy Sunday, and I wake up around 2pm, per usual. I had been crying in my sleep again. I had promised my therapist, Dr. Ivy, that I would try to incorporate more "fun things" to do without drinking to an excessive degree which some would say would be "killing myself" and others, "This is 40". I looked through my social media timelines and after blocking all the themed local music festivals that all seemed to include the same bands (Dude, The Hourlies, Greg Aubry on sound/pontification), all I could see that was going on that would not involve me killing myself was this local church festival at St. Zero's (patron saint of the bored). I saw that they had a craft beer tent and a Vegas room which basically sealed the deal. I could hear the trustworthy, constantly beleaguered, assistant Sebastian Owl on the other side of the JCMsTown Compound muttering to the cats, "You are making my hands shake," so I grab the JCM Intercom 2000 which is basically two cups tied to a string and I radio Owl that we are going to this festival.

   "Sounds good," Owl replies and I can hear possibly a sob and definitely a sigh after. I start to go through my writing notes and I hear a dish or possibly a glass break, possibly thrown, and then I start to go through my notes again from The Night Before. One of my writing techniques is that before I lay down I always jot down stream of consciousness ideas that I might be able to use for future posts. Sometimes they can be events that happened that day such as the friendly neighbor warning me about the new black family down the street, the rude jerk at the supermarket treating people like crap while I'm just trying to walk right out with my paper towel, the mysterious new brewery that opened up down the road that always seems to be packed but I have never been to. Sometimes the notes are simple pieces of dialogue that are said to me throughout the day such as "I really hope you've been video taping everything," "You're either welcome or not. My life is chaos," "I just want to disappear," (that one from my mother). The only note I had from last night was "The Noose". There was no context and I don't know what it supposed to mean so I discard it and check my messages.

   Wang: "I hate the Rams".

   -jr: "Fuck you. Lawsuit is in the mail".

   E First: "Don't forget to include a link to the book in your next post".

   I start to find a suitable wardrobe for a local church festival and make sure to attach a link to the book to my next post.

Link to the book:    The Invisible People: The Book

   Hours later, Sebastian Owl and I are on our way to this cheapjack festival where we both will finally get sick. Owl seems to already be worried and stressed despite St. Zero's only being 5 minutes away. Owl changes the radio station without asking (The song had been "New Kid in Town" by the Eagles), and "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley starts to play and Sebastian hisses at the radio and turns it off completely.

   "You seem tense," I tell Sebastian as I find an okay parking spot on the grass.

   "I'm standing in the middle of my life with my plans behind me," Owl replies.

   "Well at least you have a smile for everyone you meet," I reply, not sure if it was earnest or sarcastic.

   "Look at this place. Fat guys driving around in Jeeps, big diamond rings."

   "Oh, come on now," I reply.

   "When you own a big chunk of the bloody Third World the babies just come with the scenery," Owl says, on a roll.

   "Jesus, you are sounding like Nancy Negative right now," I say tabling the conversation for now.

   We get out and take a casual walk around the grounds. I am already sweating, looking for the advertised craft beer tent, or Vegas room, either or both would be absolutely fantastic right now. I am sweating. My mood is already dampened when I realize that after only 15 minutes there are no hardbodies here. I did happen to see a random sighting of a random Nutso ex and she was rambling about something called micro dosing and I got bored so I kept walking.

   I find the craft beer tent and try to sneak a high powered beer to make up for all this lost time, but this is already ruined by a crude graffiti marked on the table. "Lil Boy"... The name was familiar with me. While working together at Walmarget Kentucky Pete would constantly draw a sketch of a very small penis with the tag "Lil Boy". It was proto-Banksy. Eventually it got out of control as things tend to do and he ended up spray painting "Lil Boy" on the actual stockroom floor. Security was baffled, but that was because we had already disabled every fucking camera in the stockroom. But that's here nor there. That might be the next book. This "Lil Boy" in 2022 chilled me. Was he here? Who?

   "One of those IPA's please," I say as I make sure Owl is still browsing the vendor tables. Success, a small victory.

   "No can do sir. The basic beer stand is over there," a familiar voice says, E First.

   "What are you doing here?" I ask, almost shouting but not really, worried I may have taken that last, no second to last, hit of acid I had saved up.

   "I work at all the craft beer tables; every venue, every site. Right now I am in disguise," the person speaking to me is saying. The person speaking to me is a 200lb biker, "The basic beer stand is over there. 3% or less for you. And don't forget about the link for the book, Crazy."

   "Thanks for nothing," I mutter.

   "Oh come on now," the possessed biker replies and we high five, a confirmation revealed.

   I grab a Bud Light draft that my guts will regret later and reconnect with Owl and we make our way to the raffle tent which has around 30 tables set up with donated baskets with the deal being you buy tickets and put them in the package you want to win. I immediately spotted some baskets that caused concern...

   "Why are you looking at the top of the tent? You seem strung out. Who were you talking to at the beer tent?" Owl, the prick, asks and just might be the most observant person I know, the prick. I obviously ignore Owl's question, like I never heard it, and then reply, "Look at that. There is a PlayStation 5 in that basket. The ticket bucket is filled, overflowing."

   "Do you want to try to win it? You barely play video games anymore."

   "I play games. You just don't see me. Anyway, I don't want to play the raffle. I say I just take it. Walk right out with it. Zoom."

   "You are crazy. You're getting out of control!" Owl is frantic, "You have to stop this."

   "I have been looking since we parked. There are no cameras here, especially in this make-shift tent. Listen, I have a change of clothes in the car..."

   "For what!!!!"

   "Don't sweat it, it's a pink Powerhouse Gym belly shirt, some cut off shorts, I even have the full size American Flag. I need you to fake a seizure. When the staff...haha...volunteers come to calm you down, I will grab the PS5, wrap it in the fucking flag, and jog to the car. Even if they have exterior cameras the console would be covered leaving the tent, and thus, no proof it even left the tent. After taking it home, and listing it on Ebay on the burner account, I can come back to scoop you up or you can just Uber back."

   "I will not participate in this!"

   "Fuck it. Let's find the Vegas tent."

   The Vegas tent was not actually a tent but was in a building and this was where I think we got sick. I cash in a bunch of chips, how much?, you tell me, and we find a table, and I order another beer, "the lightest you have," I say in case E First in disguise or Owl were listening (they were), and I go on a decent run. My plan was to not win college funds but to drag out my investment as long as possible as a fun distraction. At one point, Sebastian was reprimanded by the "staff" that they cannot be handing me chips while not playing at the table. My first thought was to mace him with the Chemical Billy, but I was already distracted by two hideous tramps who sat down next to me, possibly ringers because the table's luck died once they sat down.

   "Ignore that clown and that talk about giving me the chips. He'll be mowing the grass tomorrow. Count on it," I reassure Jean, I mean Sebastian.

   In the end I left with two $1 chips that I didn't even bother to cash in, kept one for me and one for Owl, a small victory. I almost said for Owl to give theirs to the cheapjack giving us the big hassle, but after we ended up sick 3 days later his tip may have already been delivered. The lasting memory from this Vegas tent deal is me turning to Owl, a crazed look in my eyes, and saying "I am having fun!" with Owl replying, "I know." This is a significant moment.

   We leave the Vegas tent and the raffle is already over and the PS5 is predictably gone which ruins my backup plan of tossing the American Flag (which I was now wearing) over Sebastian Owl's head and just leaving with the PS5 anyway, especially after how those bitches ruined the luck at the blackjack table. I felt I was owed this. I needed to do this, and now the opportunity was gone, so we go back to the Silver Hornet and its okay parking spot.

   "Well, that was something," I say.

   "Just get on the road," Owl says, and I don't bother to correct.

The Covid Experience

   Jump, flash, cut to three days later, a Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, and I am a little sluggish. After taking my temperature (100.8, which I mistakenly tell Owl 108 prompting a justifiable meltdown), I realize I have to take "The Test". Yep, came back positive. After an hour, I take another test. Yep, the same, and now my nose is gushing blood which prompts Owl to scour the entire compound for a hiding E First. The trustworthy, beleaguered, assistant is concerned because of my possible compromised immune system from having 20% of my liver zapped out in 2020 (no Gofundme, went home that day, overrated). Real quick, here are my stats. I'm making it quick because this is boring: Day 1- Mucho fatigue, headache, fever, body aches. Sleep. Day 2- Same but 50% less. Day 3- Ready to rock and roll. On the record, I am 2 shot vaxxed, no booster, 80% liver, lower right heart valve defect (1990's). That's it. Boring, although I couldn't stop laughing that my experience with Covid was the exact same experience I have after hanging out with Elizabeth First: Day 1- Mucho fatigue, headache, fever, body aches, Sleep. And on and on. In fact I almost called this post "Covid is Elizabeth First". Two and a half days recovery time, and I was back ready to go grocery shopping again. Anyway, there are still some funny stories during those three days. Let's roll.

   The first thing I did was inform my inner circle that I was sick...

Mom: "Oh god, what did you do now?"

-jr: "Had it three times. Deal with it, pussy."

Owl: "No no no. This is not true."

Wang: "I fucking hate the Rams."

Sister: "Tough it out. No biggie."

Kentucky Pete: "Shit man. Sorry. Stock up on nudes and stout."

E First: "Well..." And we continue...

   E First messages me, concerned, mildly, but maybe not.

   "I am going to send you a care package. What do you want? Obviously beer, because you can't be having a fever induced seizure while sick."

   "Yeah, beer would be cool. Just burn it out of my system. Anything below 3% per the rules," I reply.

   "Okay, I'm DoorDashing you some Natural Ice Light along with some snacks. I know you won't eat them but I had to add the snacks to offset the surcharges and fees, okay?" she explains, and I wonder why she didn't just add more beer.

   "Sounds good," I lie/reply and she clicks off to finalize the order, and then I realize that there is no such thing as Natural Ice Light.

   Fifty-five minutes later, there is a knock on the door. It is a 60 year old black guy.

   "What is this?" Sebastian Owl shouts, distracted from the spreadsheets and TMZ.

   "Care package. A quesadilla," I reply, recycling an old joke, and open the door. The senior citizen is furious.

   "What took you so long?" I ask, oblivious, through my mask (which one, you tell me).

   "Mister, it took me 35 minutes to get here. I'm comin' from 7 mile and Greenfield for Chissakes."

   "Oh Jesus," I think, but not say out loud, as I realize that E First just might have botched the location. It probably cost more gas to get to the JCMsTown Compound than the actual purchase. I start giggling, knowing full well how life tends to screw you over. My laughing fit is soon interrupted.

   "Why couldn't you have picked a closer location?" he asks, possibly crying, "I passed six 7-11's on the way here."

   "I'm sorry man, but don't blame me. It was the tambourine player. Take it up with her," I say knowing full well that First was on the opposite side of the state, having rented an entire house for reasons not pertaining to this post.

   "He came from 7 mile and Greenfield!!" Sebastian Owl shouts from the kitchen, clicking off from a Zoom work chat about current events.

   "I'm sorry," I repeat again to the poor bastard, but frame it as a question, and then I go to get some extra cash (haha) for an extra tip. E First, and Owl, always tip well, to a fault, but I think this one was a little out of hand. Unfortunately, he is already back at his car, shaking his head. And then he is gone. He left the care package on the front porch, and I am alternating being disgusted and cracking up at the entire situation. In the end I mutter, "Get a real job, Fucker," and head back to the National Affairs Room, forgetting to even grab the package.

   I remember to grab the care package which Owl has already rummaged through while muttering, "Natty Ice. Not exactly in your range." The snacks that were included consisted of a sole 1.80 oz. pack of Combos Cheddar Cheese bites that were never opened, will never be opened, and will probably go with me to the grave. I don't eat cheese.

   I immediately contact the Wizard, Kentucky Pete, regarding the beer situation.

   "Just cut it," he says.

   "I can't cut it out. Without proper treatment I will die!"

   "No, not that man, I mean cut it with water."

   "Wait! You are saying cut the Natty Ice with actual water?"

   "Yeah... Cut it."

   "This isn't coke. It's beer. I'm not measuring water to cut beer. What?"

   "Maybe you're right. Not sure," he offers.

   "Wouldn't it be the same thing if I just drank water with the beer? Instead of actually mixing the water with beer?"

   "That's probably true. You're probably right. Fuck it. Look at it like a vacation. Rock and roll, as you say."

   "Okay, no cutting it. Rock and roll," we click off.

   Flash, jump, cut- Two days later, Sebastian Owl is sick. By this time I have recovered. After a week Owl is back in the New York Groove, feeling okay (different demographics, same finish), going to comedy shows, and I am doing whatever it is I do. Life goes on. It's only bad if you let it turn bad.

   A few days later I get a message from E First.

   "My entire family is sick."

   "Good lord," I offer, "It never ends."

   "I know. Just so you know, I think I am going to take it easy this week."

And the wheel in the sky keeps on turning.

From the Iceman Commeth,

The Boy Next Door,

Dr. Bryan Metro

   

The Invisible People. Debut Novel. Finally. Link and Teasers

 From the National Affairs Desk-

   For the longtime Constant Readers, you know I have been pocket pooling with a novel since the beginning. Sometimes I get distracted by music fests, wasting some of the nine lives, sheer apathy, etc. We even had a preview/performance at the Ferndale Public Library a full 12 years before this bastard was published that featured one of the first ever library concept shows that have since become the norm along with giving Sheefy McFly his big break and a platform. I'm already rambling, in character. Let's slide down the surface of things.

The book is finished. I completed the "proof copy" run through today and it is now available for sale. It is a crisp 215 pages and is a hybrid of drama, comedy, satire, horror, romance, and probably some other genres. The book is framed much like a Tarantino movie where nothing happens for a while followed by a burst of something awful. Then the sequence starts again. I am most happy that if the pages fall out of the book (a possibility as it is self published) they can be pretty much read out of order for the same effect. Well until the end.

As I mentioned above, the book is being self published with all production costs covered by me and is listed at $13 which means I'll be making around $2 each book. I almost changed the title to "Vanity Project". That's actually a steal for 215 pages and 14 years of writing. I have to stress that this isn't really about the local music scene but a thriller set mostly in Los Angeles and New York. However, if you are in the local music scene you may see a cameo, or mention of yourself. Each chapter is constructed in a way to give off a fever dream-like experience. I'm rambling again.

Here is the link to purchase the book if you are interested

The Invisible People- by Bryan Metro

The website is legit and all of your information is private and secure. I don't even see it. I don't really expect anybody to buy it, but this is not a scam (that's awful I have to say that), and I really did put a lot of work into it. Like I said up there, I am not making any money off of this, but I think if you took a chance, you just might have fun with it. Or you might hate it. Or be bored with it. I promise you a reaction. Here is also a Buy Now Tab

That's about it. To everyone who said I'd never finish the book, thanks for reading. To everyone who offered off the record encouragement. Thanks for reading. It's been fun. The end.

From the Iceman Commeth

The Boy Next Door

Dr. Bryan Metro

The Last Ride- Hamtramck Music Fest Review Saturday

 From the National Affairs Desk-

   Well, this    Is   It. The "Last Ride" with the Hamtramck Music Festival. And by that I mean I'm not doing this anymore. As I mentioned in the previous post, this was the first year that I did not have fun. The bands I saw were good, but I felt something was missing. Don't get me wrong, the bands (who played for free) and the volunteers worked their asses off to make it a respectable festival were disco, but the majority of the people running the deal (most under the name of Question Mark) really botched things this year. Because it is 2022, there will be excuses, passive aggressive pity parties, and deflection. Or they won't refer to anything at all and lay dormant until next year (if you're a gambler, take that bet). As for the show, and the feeling of "something missing", as the best local journalist I made sure to eavesdrop on some conversations and though the people having them seemed happy, they all seemed to be wearing masks and would have been more happy talking about the weather. Before we get to Saturday, as for Sunday, the Vendor Trade Fair at Trixie's sounds cool and fun and I would love some photos of the Rock and Roll Brunch at the PLAV #10. I wonder if Hip in Detroit will be there trying to swap some unused drink tickets. Also, does that Weir dude still do that cringe Bahama thing?

   The big thing out of Friday's showcase was that Moose Lodge cancelled the entire event. I actually went there. There was no mention of any cancellation anywhere. Just absolutely mind boggling and inconveniencing for the bands, especially the bands, the venues scrambling to try to fit extra acts on, the volunteers who are as in the dark as we all are, and even the organizers, the one's who have a shred of decency. You would think that with 80% of the proceeds going to "Production, PR, the website, Facebook, security (ha ha), and future funds (ummmmmm ok), there would have been better communication regarding this.

   Then today, Saturday, I wake up at 3:30pm to see this direct from their FB:

Okay, now you tell me if they are deliberately fucking with me, taunting, and giving a middle finger to everybody who was planning on going to the Moose Lodge tonight... That blurb was posted around noon on Saturday (I capped it around 7, well after the event started), and as of 7pm, the website had not been updated, nor any mention on their Facebook about the Moose Lodge dropping out. To be fair, as I type this at 5am, the website has been updated, removing Moose Lodge from the schedule. Great job there! Somebody, a live human being, likely being compensated from the 60% of proceeds, posted that. They knew the Moose Lodge was dropping off as far back as early Friday (trust me because I know). Yet, zero mention on their Facebook or donated website, which was never updated with the schedule changes even after they finally removed Moose Lodge late Saturday/early Sunday. And then there's that smug "as things can change". Here are some of the local acts (playing for free) that have been pinballed this weekend:

Hahaha that was from three days ago and they are still listed. Gold.

   If anything good comes from this, at least the mystery 20% of "all proceeds" will be going to a good cause, though we will probably never know what that cause is. I would have a decent laugh if the grifters actually donated the 20% to a group that were also grifters and the world caves in on itself. Actually...I wouldn't be surprised, Oh, fuck this. On to the review:

   Wang and I arrive to Hamtramck to get a decent parking spot, almost the same one I had on Friday, close to the Polish Sea League and Baker's, and Whiskey in the Jar, and then Elizabeth First arrives with the tambourine which means we now have three tambourines total and we wait for Kentucky Pete who eventually arrives on a chopper, sunburnt, with a portfolio, a fucking Binder, of bootleg Hamtramck Music Festival posters that he was hoping to get signed, along with multiple signed 8X10's (forged) of Kay Parker, Nina Hartley, and TT Boy.

   "Do you want to tell him?" I ask Wang.

   "What? That he is illegally parked?"

   "No, that those posters are worthless," I reply.

   "Where are we going? I need a drink," E First asks.

   "Aren't you sick?" K Pete asks.

   "It's not a big deal. Besides, think of it as me doing the world a big favor."

   "Whiskey has an act at 7:30 according to the schedule," I offer.

   "The schedule... well that's about as unreliable as you Bryan," Wang says.

   "The schedule is about as unreliable as you Wang," K Pete jumps in.

   "The schedule is as unreliable as me," E First says, and we all start whooping and hollering, slapping high fives, many high fives, and then we go to Whiskey in the Jar and catch some act called Bourbon Squirrel setting up.

   "What's the name of this band?" E First asks as I realize that Kentucky Pete has already disappeared here.

   "The fraudulent schedule says this is Bourbon Squirrel, but who knows," I reply.

   "Things change!" we all shout and slap high five some more and order another round despite our first round not even touched.

   "Damn, I should have worn my squirrel suit. Get in good with the band, y'know. Extra drink tickets! Maybe even play tambourine," E First says, pouting. I remember the squirrel costume well, but not really.

   "Okay, I'm already bored," Wang says and logs on to his Draftkings account on his tablet to play Live Dealer Blackjack. I take out the Mojo Wire and do the same.

   "It's the wrong time of day to be playing. Everyone is either a weedhead or an amateur. Probably both," Wang mutters.

   "I agree, but we could luck into a side bet," I reply as E First takes out her phone and attempts to set up a Draftkings account..

   "Use me as a reference," Wang says.

   "No, use me as a reference," I repeat, this time a warning. We get back to the game.

   "Look at this waterhead dealing. Two cards in a row, he can't flip the card. He has to be high," Wang mutters as he loses $5.

   "Maybe they're volunteers," I joke and we all laugh and slap high five. Whatever band that is scheduled for 7:30 starts playing and we leave.

   We arrive at Granny's Chandelier to catch 1magine's set just for the irony that he tried to get a local venue shut down (or some pity money, typical), a venue that is hosting the HamFest, and one that hasn't backed out and is accepting acts from the venues that have. I wanted to interview him about his opinions on integrity and why so many weedheads split on twenty, but Wang said there is no good wi-fi here and I see E First take the acid which was always in the cards so we leave and head back to Polish Sea League where we catch the Hourlies, a great set, and we set up out virtual blackjack table.

   "Why do these fools always split on twenty?" Wang mutters and this is when -jr pops up on all of our devices.

   "What's going on fuck-o's? Wish I could be there but I have better things to do. Anyway, I have a few extra minutes soooooooo, group chat. Top 10 chicks that waited too long to doff it?" This is when things turned sideways.

   "Meg Ryan," Wang says almost immediately as he logs off of blackjack after dropping $75. He is not wrong.

   "Agree," I say, secretly jealous that he probably got the number one answer so I try to counter with Teri Hatcher, already embarrassed. 

   "Cindy Crawford," E First says, still playing on her phone.

   "Farrah Fawcett," me.

   "Britney," me again, trying to save face.

   "Neve Campbell," -jr say, a fantastic pick, and I slowly draw blood from scratching at the bootleg wristband.

   "Boom! Good one," say, conceding this round, and me and Wang slap high five despite it being -jr's pick.

   "Meg Ryan, number one," -jr says, and I can't stop sweating.

   "Flapjack titties," Wang says even though it was his pick, the stupid bastard.

   "Plastic baggies," -jr replies, obviously in fine form.

   "Should have doffed during the Top Gun era," Wang.

   "Meg Ryan was not in Top Gun," I say trying to regain some semblance of pride.

   "Nahhh, I said the era dude."

   "Then just say the 80's pal. Who is going to relate to hearing the Top Gun Era?" I am frantic.

   "Top Gun was in the 80's. Rambo as well.," E First chimes in.

   "Why not just say the 80's then!" I am losing it.

   "Triangles of flesh," E First says circling back to Meg Ryan and we all concede that she won that round. High fives everywhere.

   "Well, at least we have the titles of our next four singles," I reply, making a joke, still bitter about being outplayed here so far. At this point we leave and head to Ant Hall to catch the Handgrenades' set (if they haven't been cancelled or dropped out).

We ignore the band playing and get back to arguing, all of us trying to one-up the other.

   "I would say Marisa Tomei, but she's still hot. She did wait a while though," Wang starts.

   "Hotter with age," -jr.

   "Yep. Tomei not on the list," Metro.

   "Agree," E First.

   "Belinda Carlisle, although her Playboy spread was not bad," I offer, and grin when I see Wang muttering to himself.

   "I don't know who that is," -jr says, faking it.

   "Lead singer of the Go-Go's," I reply. Silence.

   "Sunny. WWF," -jr shouts, obviously pissed at not knowing who Belinda Carlisle is, but still a great call.

   "Great call. Could actually be number one," I say.

   "Usually, the reverse is true. They doff early on, make it big, then don't think they have to do it anymore," Wang says, obviously philosophical.

   "Yep. The Game of Thrones chick, "E First says, and then under her breath, "Maybe me."

   "New topic. Top ten Doffs in their prime," -jr shouts as the table next to us starts to pay attention.

   "Margot Robbie. Wolf of Wall Street. Number one. No contest," I shout; high fives.

   "Erika Elaniak. Under Siege," -jr, a decent counter but not as good as my pick.

   "Lohan," E First says.

   "Lohan could actually be on both, 'in their prime' and 'waited too long'," I reply while giving myself a high five.

   "Anne Heche was pretty super cute in that Psycho remake," E First says while not looking at the rest of us playing with a swizzle stick, either being earnest or intentionally trying to kill the mood.

   "I think she had a girl on girl scene in a different movie. Better footage," Wang says, foiling E First's plot to ruin the mood.

   "Did you see, read, that she sat up like a zombie after that accident?" E First continues, really intent on zapping the mood. The man at the table next to us, sitting by himself, sweating profusely leans in while leering at E First.

   "Sometimes your brain does weird stuff and there is nothing you can do about it."

   "Elizabeth Berkley," Wang or -jr says, getting us back on track. I am losing track.

   "Good call," I say, "I snuck into Showgirls in high school. I was actually disappointed. She's skinny dumpy."

   "Denise Richards."

   "Marisa Tomei," -jr says, obviously not keeping up, but not exactly wrong.

   "Denise Richards is borderline. Her PB spread showed she has a pucker butt," I say, now officially off the rails and E First starts cackling.

   "Nope. Wild Things dude," -jr says and I hear him give himself a high five.

   "Ah shit, I forgot," I concede, "Nah, not on the list," I apologize.

   "I thought we were now onto Prime," Wang says as he quietly logs back on to blackjack.

   "Yes, we are sticking with Prime. Halle Berry. Salma Hayak, Desperado," I stammer trying to pull into the lead.

   "I heard that was a body double," Wang says, the bitter bastard.

   "No, closed set. Look it up." 

   "She's gotten naked in other movies," Wang replies, flustered, maybe bitter. A small victory.

   At this point Handgrenades have finished and some other band is setting up. I am interested in the other movies that Salma Hayak has gotten naked in and write myself a note to look them up which E First sees me do. We leave and head to Small's to catch the Amino Acids who are basically noteworthy because they stole their gimmick from a Jack White video. A solo video. Yuck.

   "Aren't you banned from here?" E First asks, grinning.

   "Yeah, but we all have wristbands so it should be fine,"I reply, guessing.

   "But all of our wristbands are fake. Bootlegged," she says, but not really concerned. She doesn't care which is the best way to go about things.

   "Yepp," I reply, and the conversation is abandoned which is the best way to go about things.

  The Amino Assholes start playing and we all put our earplugs in and resume the dialogue...

   "Blurred Lines girl. Emily Ragnarok. The perfect hardbody," I say, a slam dunk, high fives.

   "Demi Moore, Striptease," Wang counters.

   "Nice call on Demi," I say, "Fake but fit."

   "Jennifer Connelly in The Hot Spot," Wang continues, showing off.

   "Heather Graham in Boogie Nights," he continues, and I start to furiously sweat and consider ditching them all.

   "Chick from American Pie that was on the cover of Maxim for a year," Wang. He...just...won't...stop...

   "Nicole Kidman, Eyes Wide Shut, or Dead Calm. Amazing white girl ass," I say, gaining ground.

   "Hey, no extra points. That's another topic."

   "Sharon Stone, Basic Instinct, although she was arguable hotter in Total Recall," E First chimes in. She's alive!!

   "Agree. 100% hotter in Total Recall. Because she kept her clothes on," I retort.

   "Yes, its what you don't know that matters the most," E First laughs as the table exchanges high fives. I even see -jr slap his screen high five.

   "Heather Graham. Shannon Elizabeth," -jr says.

   "Try to keep up with the conversation Patrick," we all say. The Amino Acids have stopped playing and the venue is clearing out.

   "Pamela Anderson for the second list," someone says, and I no longer know what we are talking about.

   "Linnea Quigley," someone says.

   "Which list?" someone asks.

   "Whichever you want," someone answers.

   "Shannon Tweed," Wang offers.

   "Shannon could be on both lists as well. She doesn't own any clothes," I reply.

   "Just my type," E First says.

   "Jodie Foster but Only from the Accused, Not Nell," -jr says.

   "New topic. Greatest love scenes of all time," E First says.

   We all click off and then we leave.

From the Iceman Commeth,

The Boy Next Door

#metroforsheriff

Dr. Bryan Metro